Of Love, Hate and Inconsequential Nonsense
by OtakuFangirlCrazyArtist
Summary: A drabble for each letter of the alphabet. Contains angst, fluff, crack and slash of the Sherlock/John variety.
1. Asexual

A/N: Hello! I've been working on these for the past month and have quite a few finished! I shall post them when I can, probably in chunks. Thanks to NnoitraSzayel, who gave me word prompts for many of these 3. Please R&R!

Asexual

Sherlock had always given everyone the impression that he wasn't interested in any sort of romantic attachment, or even friendship for that matter. Even his mother was convinced he would spend his life alone, and she'd come to accept that fact. So needless to say, she was surprised when he called and informed her of his new relationship with John. Surprised, but not unpleasantly so. She was glad her son had found someone who could bring him out of that shell he'd cultivated for so long.


	2. Blasphemy

Blasphemy

In Sherlock's opinion, John had very few faults, if any. When the detective occasionally finds one, he does not remark upon it; for it always seems so minor that it does not bear mentioning. So, should anyone ever suggest one of John's faults in Sherlock's presence, the detective will, of course, fight them over it. He will effectively shut them up in his usual caustic way, whether it is called for or not.


	3. Collapse

Collapse

It is common knowledge among those who know him that Sherlock doesn't eat enough. However, he is quite adept at not eating without anyone noticing, and so no one really knows exactly how little he's eaten at any given time. He eats small things while on cases, sporadically, when he remembers. Once, however, when he and John were on a particularly interesting case, Sherlock forgot completely about food (and sleep, for that matter). On the fourth day of the case, they were waiting to cross the street when Sherlock fell unconscious. John barely caught him in time to prevent a concussion. When Sherlock awoke a few minutes later, he was berated and dragged to the nearest restaurant by a concerned and distinctly unamused Doctor Watson.


	4. Dustup

Dustup

John is well aware that Sherlock often got into scuffles and (usually) minor scrapes with the criminals he chased. The ex-soldier had, in fact, been involved in quite a few of them. So, when he and the detective got into a fistfight with some Armenian gypsies who also happened to be smugglers, John was not surprised. He was surprised, however, when Sherlock came out of it worse off than he did. But even while wiping a bloody nose and spitting blood from his damaged mouth, the consulting detective was able to continue rattling off deductions. It was also unsurprising to John that Sherlock refused to stop working and put ice on his newly split lip, or let the doctor check for broken ribs.


	5. Elegy

A/N: Well, this one kind of got away from me... It's more of a oneshot, but I just couldn't resist. There's never enough John angst :3

Elegy

About a year after John came home from Afghanistan, he got a call that several of the men and women he'd served with had been killed in an unexpected attack. A funeral was scheduled for the following day, he was told. The morning of the service, John dressed in his old fatigues, ate a small breakfast and declined Sherlock's offer of company. When he returned that afternoon, Sherlock was gone; no doubt at St. Bart's or on a case. John changed into street clothes and then sat on the couch, watching small rivers drip and pool over the windowpanes. In the time he sat there, John thought of his fallen friends, of the injustice of their sudden departure, of the cost of war. The same thoughts that had occupied his mind so often before he'd moved into 221b now crept back and turned his mood as gray as the weeping clouds.

What felt like a quarter of an hour (in reality it was about two hours) later, Sherlock swept in, his untameable hair shining with captured raindrops. He hung his coat and scarf on the back of the door, all the while speaking quickly about some new discovery he'd made at the lab. Something about hemoglobin... John found he couldn't truly listen, or focus on Sherlock's presence. Usually, simply being around the enigmatic man had the effect of driving John's melancholy away, but today it simply wasn't enough. Today, there was death in the air.

"John?" The direct address roused him to the present. "John, are you alright?"

John raised his head and met Sherlock's blue-gray eyes, which were filled with concern. The veteran nodded slowly.

"Yes... I'm sorry, Sherlock, I-" he could not go on, for there was a sudden tightening in his throat. He looked away quickly, hoping Sherlock wouldn't notice the sudden watery brightness of his eyes. He may as well have hoped for the rain to stop being wet. Sherlock sat beside him on the couch and slid an arm around John's shoulders. John leaned against his side and took a deep breath.

"It's alright..." Sherlock murmured softly against the short blonde hair. John merely shook his head and buried his face in Sherlock's chest. The detective wrapped both arms around John protectively as the veteran let his tears fall. John found solace there, in the circle of Sherlock's arms and the sound of his heartbeat. Slowly, as he cried silently, he forgave himself for not saving the dead. He began to accept the unfairness of it all.


	6. Fleet

Fleet

The house where Sherlock had grown up had been deep in the Lake District, at least an hour from any major city. The building was small, an old cottage his father had had fixed up before Mycroft was born. It was isolated atop a large hill, from which you could see the nearby town where Sherlock went to school. He was often bored in that small house, having done most of the interesting experiments that were possible at that point and in that place by the time he was ten or eleven years old. When the boredom and apathy were completely suffocating, Sherlock would simply leave, sprinting down the hill behind the house and out over the surrouding fields. His bare feet moved so fast they barely seemed to touch the ground, and he relished that feeling. He loved the fact that his mind and body were, for once, moving at the same speed. He loved the way his chest burned when he stopped for breath because his body made him. But what he loved the most was the feeling that his feet could take him anywhere. The sense that as long as he could run like this, he was free.


	7. Gay

Gay

"Sherlock, where are we going?" John asked as he hurried to keep up with the taller man's long strides. Said man had dragged him out of the flat with only the explanation that they were going out.

"Tate London," Sherlock answered succinctly, lengthening his stride slightly. Why was his partner in such a hurry to get to an art gallery? John wondered. He was a bit of an art nut, but still. This was excessive for Sherlock, when there was no murder involved.

"We're meeting Mycroft there," Sherlock elaborated, confusing John further.

"Why?"

"He's going with his family and I was ordered along."

"Wait, you're actually _listening_ to Mycroft?"

"I want to see my niece and nephew," Sherlock replied, as though this was the most obvious and natural thing in the world. Although, John supposed, it was natural to want to see one's family. But that was why it was such a surprising thing for Sherlock to want.

"You don't see them often, then," John delved, wanting to continue the conversation.

"Not often, no," Sherlock answered, "Mycroft's husband thinks I'm a bad influence on them."

John raised his eyebrows. "Mycroft's...?"

"Gay. Obviously."

"Right... Obviously." They walked through the busy streets, hand in hand, as John turned this new information over in his mind.

A/N: This is CANON! Well, the part about Mycroft being gay is. Not making this up.


	8. Home

Home

221b Baker Street wasn't at all the kind of living space John was used to. It was the epitome of disorder where he was organized almost to a fault (a habit the military had drilled into him). The apartment was also potentially hazardous to his physical and mental health, what with Sherlock's odd experiments and various body parts stored in strange places. And yet, despite all this, he felt at home in that untidy, chaotic flat then he had anywhere else before.


	9. Indifference

Indifference

Sherlock had a certain persona that he showed the world. He was condescending to those less intelligent than himself, and was aloof much of the time. He didn't care if he was inconveniencing or offending someone, no matter who it was or what the offense. This persona did not in the slightest care what others thought of him. However, John had learned to see past this unchanging facade. The veteran could now see the small cracks that ran along it, through which you could see glimpses of Sherlock's true thoughts. John noticed the way Sherlock's steely blue eyes hardened at the remarks of Anderson and Donovan, the way his mouth tightened at their jibes. And while it was true that Sherlock genuinely didn't care for the wellbeing or needs of other people, he had learned to be attentive to John. Sherlock was always watching him; sometimes analyzing and sometimes simply looking. It was, in John's opinion, a good place to start.


	10. Je t'aime

A/N: Pre-slash!

Je t'aime

It was a balmy night in late August; Sherlock and John were walking to the Chinese at the end of Baker Street for dinner. Sherlock was walking a step ahead of John, and was stopped by a pair of French tourists who asked for directions in rather broken English. John listened as Sherlock gave them the information they asked for, in their native language. When the tourists walked off and the two men continued on, John remarked:

"I didn't know you could speak French."

"I've never spoken it around you," Sherlock replied dismissively.

"No, that's true," the veteran paused for a moment, thinking. "How many languages do you speak?"

"Twenty-two," the detective replied without hesitation. John raised his eyebrows, though he couldn't say he was terribly surprised.

"I was always rubbish at languages," he remarked, a bit regretfully. Sherlock half-smiled at him, opening the door of the restaurant.

As John stepped through the open door, he heard Sherlock murmur, so quietly it was barely inaudible, "Je t'aime."

"What?" John asked, turning.

"Nothing." Sherlock replied, almost reluctantly. As he passed his flatmate on the way to the counter, John caught sight of a momentary expression in his eyes. It spoke of deep longing and hopelessness, but was gone as soon as John had seen it. He must have imagined it, he thought to himself. It had been a trick of the light...


	11. Kleptomania

Kleptomania

Sherlock has a certain disregard for other people's posessions. He often picks the pockets of those who annoy him, a fact which John had learned on their first case together. Along with Lestrade's badges, Sherlock has a prolific collection of Donovan's lipstick and Anderson's breath mints. He will also use any excuse to collect pens. The detective takes them from desks, clipboards, even occasionally from people's fingers. He takes them home and keeps them in a drawer, which is nearly full by this point. When John asks him why all this is necessary, Sherlock replies that he cannot abide a shortage of pens.


	12. Language

Language

John had been forewarned that Sherlock had phases where he didn't speak for days. He hadn't been warned, however, that Sherlock had days where he spoke nothing but foreign languages. On these days, the detective would not voluntarily address anyone, communicating only if absolutely necessary with a nod or a shake of his head. He would go about his various experiments, muttering to himself almost constantly in some foreign dialect. So far, John had caught him speaking Polish, Farsi, Vietnamese, Dutch and Gaelic. The veteran had even received a text in what he later learned was Latin. He was trying to get Sherlock out of the habit of sending unintelligible texts, however, because you could only learn to recognize the phrase "Pick up milk on your way home." in so many languages.


	13. Maelstorm

Maelstorm  
><span> John opened the door to 221b and was greeted by the piercing sound of a violin being scraped upon. Wincing, he walked up the stairs, resisting the urge to plug his ears as the volume increased with every step he took. John opened the door and was greeted by the sight of Sherlock standing in the middle of the sitting room, sawing away at him violin. His back was turned to the door, and he did not seem to hear John enter the room.

The veteran walked to the kitchen and put away the milk he'd picked up on the way home. He flinched slightly as Sherlock wrung out a particularly high, screeching note. John closed the refrigerator door more sharply than he intended and Sherlock seemed to realize he was no longer alone. He immediately changed his tact and launched into a more melodic piece. John leaned against the doorway out of the kitchen and listened as the anger gradually seeped out of the music. As he stood there, Sherlock's melody turned slow and melancholy before it faded away completely and the detective lowered his violin slowly.

John watched as Sherlock packed away the violin and presently he asked: "So, what's bothering you?"

"I don't know," Sherlock muttered, snapping the clasps on the case shut with more force than was probably necessary.

"You don't know?" John echoed, walking to stand behind his partner. Sherlock turned to face him and shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line. He hated not knowing, the veteran could see.

"You don't have to know," John said gently, taking his hand. Sherlock scuffed his bare toes against the carpet and scowled in frustration. John squeezed his hand and walked a few steps to sit on the sofa, pulling Sherlock down beside him. The detective followed unresistingly.

"Telly?" John asked. Sherlock nodded mutely and curled up against his partner's warmth. John flipped the telly on and the detective allowed it to turn his mind into a blank page, slowly filling with the warmth of John's presence beside him.


	14. Nuisance

A/N: Mostly because I love the idea of Sherlock and John (but mostly Sherlock) having a little black cat n.n

Nuisance

"John, get the cat off my table!" Sherlock cried, blocking said animal's access to his miscroscope. The cat purred and rubbed her face against his hand. He scratched behind her ear automatically as John entered the room.

"You two seem perfectly happy," he remarked.

"She's in my way," Sherlock grumnbled.  
>John smiled and picked up the small, black cat, who continued to purr and rubbed up against his shoulder. "She wants to know what you're doing that's so interesting."<p>

Sherlock snorted. "She's a cat, John. I doubt her motivations are so specific."

"Well either way, I think it's sweet."

"Tch. It's annoying," Sherlock scoffed, though an endeared smile played around his lips.


	15. Oven

A/N: This is pure crack. Just fair warning.

Oven

John rarely cooked dinner for both himself and Sherlock; they generally ate out and much of the time, John was the only one eating. However, today was going to be different. He'd decided on a whim that they were going to have a proper dinner. Roast chicken and potatoes, thank you very much. John preheated the oven and prepared the food, in high spirits. It wasn't long, however, before an odd smell filled the air. John had a sinking feeling he knew what it was, and opened the oven to find out...  
>"Sherlock! Why the bloody hell is there a hand in the oven?"<p>

His flatmate replied calmly from the couch: "I'm testing the rate at which flesh cooks, and there was no room in the refrigerator. After that case with the cannibals last month, I thought- Where are you going?" Sherlock watched in slight confusion as his friend walked out of the flat with two cooking pans in hand.

"To use Mrs. Hudson's oven!"


	16. Phantasmagoria

Phantasmagoria

A young man stands on a street corner, leaning against the sturdy bricks of the nearest building. He is one of those figures that the average eye automatically overlooks, so subtle is his manner. To an observer, he seems to be a regular university student- dressed in a pair of jeans that are worn but not ragged, a crisp black dress shirt his only protection against the chill October air. His hair is a casual mess of black curls that the autumn wind occasionally blows over his face, so that he has to raise a pale hand to brush it back. His skin is pale, creating a stark contrast against the inky color of his hair. His face is angular and vaguely reminiscent of some feline creature, with pronounced cheekbones that suggest he does not eat enough. His only movement is the action of bringing a cigarette to his mouth with thin fingers. No one can tell how long he has been standing there, or when he intends to leave that spot on the street corner.

He watches the street before him through sharp blue-gray eyes, the color of the winter sky. People bustle by him in both directions, adding to the noise of cars and buses on the surrounding streets. How dull they all are, he thinks, and how transient. He wonders then: how many of them truly matter? And how many know just how pointless their existences are?


	17. Quintessential

Quintessential

Mycroft Holmes is a complicated man. He hides behind many varied masks, masks so complex that they have woven together indiscriminately. His intelligence allows him to keep these layers between himself and other people almost flawlessly. However, if you were to strip away those layers of control and condescension and manners, you would find Mycroft to be a family man. He has a husband and two children whom he protects from the many dangerous people with whom he associates. He has a brother whom he tries to keep out of legal trouble and clean of illegal substances. He has a mother whom he visits fairly often, though he keeps a fair number of his exploits from her knowledge. Beneath all the masks and composure, Mycroft is a man who will help his family in any way he can.


	18. Ridicule

Ridicule

John hated the way most of Scotland Yard treated Sherlock. He didn't often show it, but sometimes the veteran felt as though their constant antagonism bothered him more than it did Sherlock. But then the two of them would be walking away from a crime scene and the detective's lips would be pressed into a thin, angry line. He'd exhale sharply and John would look up to see a flash of pain in those striking eyes. He would take Sherlock's hand then, and squeeze gently. Sherlock would lean his shoulder against John lightly and allow himself to be led away.


	19. Symphony

Symphony

John came home one day to find Sherlock sitting at the cluttered table in the sitting room with papers spread about him, writing furiously. This was not an unusual occurrence, except for the portable electric keyboard that sat beside him on the table. Every so often, he would lift his hands and play a seemingly random chord or series of notes.

"What are you doing?" John asked after watching for a few minutes.

"Composing," Sherlock replied curtly.

"Composing what, exactly?"

"Schubert's Eighth Symphony."

"But... hasn't that already been composed...?"

"It's the Unfinished Symphony!" Sherlock explained impatiently.

"So, you're finishing it."

"Yes, obviously."

John shook his head, smiling slightly in endearment. Only Sherlock.


	20. Tipsy

A/N: This is pure crack, just to warn you. Well, as close to pure crack as I can get. Includes sweary!John XD. And thanks to NnoitraSzayel for putting drunk Sherlock shouting about chicken into my head.

Tipsy

John came down one morning to find Sherlock sprawled upon the sofa, a bottle and several glasses on the coffee table beside him. The detective's eyes were half-closed and he was smiling lazily, humming a nonsense song quietly.

"Sherlock?" John asked tentatively.

"Hm...? 'Lo, John..." Sherlock replied, looking over at him and smiling dreamily, "Morning... Or is it af'ernoon...?" He giggled. John raised his eyebrows; Sherlock had actually _giggled_.

"What the hell have you been drinking?" His flatmate asked, striding over and picking up the bottle.

"Exper'ment..." Sherlock slurred.

"Absinthe?" John cried, reading the label, "Where the bloody hell do you even _get_ absinthe?"

"Black..." Sherlock hiccuped, "Black market..."

John replaced the bottle, shaking his head. He walked to the kitchen, saying over his shoulder and half to himself:

"I'm having breakfast... Think there's some chicken or something..."

"You make that chicken, John!" Sherlock shouted at him, then collapsed into a fit of laughter. John rolled his eyes. It was going to be a long morning.


	21. Union

Union

Sherlock and John were unlikely to ever be officially married. It didn't seem necessary to John; they were perfectly happy the way they were. Sherlock had never really considered it, and scoffed at the idea that a relationship needed to be defined in legal terms. Neither of them had any wish to be joined by law- they were married in every way that mattered.


	22. Vandalism

Vandalism

Sherlock tended to hold his body in high disregard. This showed especially on his hands, which bore scars from various chemicals and, in lower number, various sharp objects. There were also faint track marks on both his wrists and the insides of his elbows, left over from years of cocaine use. It pained John to see them, but he'd memorized the placement of each and every one. They were an important part of who Sherlock was and therefore, they were important to John. However, despite this fact, John really does wish that his love would be more careful to the hydrochloric acid.


	23. Wake

Wake

John scanned his living room from his position on the couch. He really hadn't expected anyone except Mrs. Hudson to come, but Lestrade's division had proved him wrong. There was Gregson, chatting politely with Molly while Lestrade watched, a tad suspiciously. There were three or four other members of the squad who had known Sherlock, though Anderson and Donovan were conspicuously absent. John couldn't help but be grateful; he would definitely have shouted, at the very least, had they shown up.

Mrs. Hudson was present, of course, making sure everyone had enough food and alcohol. John knew she was doing it so he didn't have to, and he appreciated that, but... He had nothing to do. Nothing but sitting and watching people who had barely known Sherlock talk about him in a way that was far more complimentary than realistic. And John couldn't stop thinking about him, about all the stories that he could share, that he didn't want to give voice to, that he wanted to keep locked away as pristine memories. And that final story that ended their larger one, the one that ended in quiet tears and blood and damage. Irreparable, undeniable, damage.

John sat there, adrift in his thoughts, until Molly approached him.

"Are you all right?" she asked kindly.

"Fine," he replied automatically.

"Sorry, yeah. Stupid question," Molly said, flustered and obviously not believing him.

"I just want to be alone, thanks, Molly."

"'Course, whatever you need. I'll make your excuses," she said, smiling a little sadly.

"Thanks," John murmured, He got to his feet, pushing himself up with his cane, and limped out of the room.

Only after he'd closed the door to their- _his_- bedroom did John feel calm enough to sleep. And suddenly he was so exhausted- by the funeral, the wake, the people in his living room who had never and would never know Sherlock as he had- that he crawled into the bed on Sherlock's side and buried himself in the blankets. The scent of Sherlock's shampoo still emanated from the pillow and beneath it John caught a trace of Sherlock's natural scent- indescribable and unique and painfully familiar.

He closed his eyes and, for those few minutes before he drifted off, he could pretend that Sherlock was in the kitchen, busy with an experiment, and that he would come to bed as soon as he had finished...


	24. Xenon

A/N: So this is my first porn. Be nice plz? Thanks to NnoitraSzayel for betaing :)

* * *

><p><span>Xenon<span>  
>"John, just listen to me for a second!" Sherlock cried in frustration, following John from the kitchen to the bedroom.<p>

"No!" John shouted back. He was rummaging in the back of the closet for his suitcase. "I am not going to sit here and watch you destroy yourself, Sherlock."

"You aren't listening! That stash was from months ago. I've been clean since December."

"Right. You expect me to believe that."

"It's the truth."

"Yeah, because you've never lied to me before. Never put your next high before my well being, my sanity!"

"John, for God's sake! We should not even be having this argument!"

"I think we should! Because I'm not sure which you love more, me or the cocaine!"

A look of surprised hurt passed over Sherlock's face like a wind-blown cloud across the sun, before he replied in a more subdued tone.

"Xenon."

"What?"

"Cocaine is my xenon."

"You're going to have to elaborate a bit more if you want me to know what the hell you're on about."

Sherlock took a step toward John and spoke in the same fast, low tone as he did when he spouted deductions.

"Xenon, a colorless, odorless noble gas. It is used as a general anesthetic, which you should know given your qualifications as a medical professional. It is also used in arc lamps, which scientists use to simulate the Sun's warmth."

Sherlock approached John slowly as he spoke, keeping his voice low, and John shivered a little despite his anger at the power of that voice.

"In these lamps, the xenon gas has a temperature approaching that of the noon-day sun. It simulates the sun's warmth and light but it can never quite measure up to the real thing. So you see, John, cocaine is my xenon, and you are my Sun."

Sherlock reached out and gently cupped John's cheek in his palm as he spoke those last few words. John leaned into the touch automatically, unconsciously, sighing softly.

"Why would I settle for an imitation when I can have the real thing?" Sherlock murmured. John smiled at that and before he had made the conscious decision to do so, he was closing the gap between them and kissing Sherlock firmly. The detective made an approving sound and wrapped his free arm around John's waist, pulling him close. John's fingers tangled through Sherlock's hair as their mouths met heatedly, teeth tugging and tongues probing with gentle persistence.

John pulled back for air after a minute or two and murmured, "Throw away the drugs," as Sherlock kissed along his jaw.

"Of course..." his partner replied against his skin, "After..."

John smiled and pulled him in for another intense kiss before leading Sherlock to the bed, abandoning his suitcase and all thoughts of leaving the flat.

John smiled and pulled him in for another burning kiss before leading Sherlock to the bed, already undoing the detective's shirt buttons. Sherlock's hands had migrated under John's jumper somehow and they were caressing his chest and back and stomach, their fleeting touches leaving him gasping against his partner's mouth. He stripped Sherlock of his shirt efficiently, tossing it aside, and went to work on his belt and trousers. Sherlock moaned softly and broke their kiss to tug the jumper over John's head, casting it to the floor carelessly.

Once John dropped Sherlock's trousers and pants to the floor, the detective pressed himself against his partner. John gasped at the contact and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso, one hand caressing the muscles of his back while the other groped his arse. Sherlock moaned into John's mouth, pressing his erect cock against John's stomach. He would never get used to this feeling, John thought fleetingly, of Sherlock wanting him in this way. Sherlock, of all people, a man proclaimed everything physical to be "just transport". John shivered as said man trailed a hand down his spine, slipping it under his waistband with no shyness whatsoever.

"Lie down..." John murmured, pushing gently at Sherlock's chest. The detective reluctantly stepped away and laid on his back, keeping his eyes on John as the doctor stripped off his trousers and pants. When he was finished, he knelt on the bed with Sherlock, straddling his hips and leaning down for another heated kiss. He trailed his hands over Sherlock's chest, rubbing his thumbs against the detecctive's nipples and making Sherlock arch and moan softly.

John kissed down Sherlock's neck, sucking and biting at his pulse, determined to leave a mark. Now that they were together, now that Sherlock was _his_, he had to show the world that the detective was taken. Sherlock gasped under John's insistent mouth, fingers curling around his shoulders. He trailed one hand down John's back, short nails scraping against the skin and making John groan. As the doctor trailed his lips down to Sherlock's collarbone, he slotted his hips against Sherlock's, their cocks brushing and sending sparks of pleasure up John's spine. Sherlock groaned beneath him, the sound going straight to John's groin.

"John..." Sherlock whispered as the doctor rocked his hips, grinding them together.

"Mm...?" John looked up, drinking in the sight of his partner flushed and wanting beneath him. His pupils were so wide they had nearly erased the irises and John's fingers had turned his dark hair more unruly than usual. His kiss-swollen lips were parted slightly, soft pants escaping from them, and he looked utterly debauched. John moaned softly and leaned down, kissing him fiercely as he ground down against him.

Sherlock gasped against John's lips and returned the kiss eagerly. He had never felt so consumed by another person as he did when he was with John, when they were together like this, skin on skin. He had meant what he'd said earlier- John gave him a better high, stopped his brain more effectively than cocaine had ever managed to. His attention, the way he touched and kissed Sherlock, as though it was the only thing he'd ever wanted to do, was completely intoxicating.

When John pulled back for air, Sherlock murmured, "Want you... Now..." Normally, he would have been embarrassed to say something that came so close to begging, but he was too aroused to care at the moment. John moaned softly and guided Sherlock's legs apart, teasing a finger around his entrance. Sherlock arched at the touch, his hips rocking down in search of more of the sensation. Carefully, John slid his finger inside, watching as Sherlock's head tipped back in pleasure. He thrust in and out a few times before adding another and slowly working the detective open. Sherlock gasped and tried to despite the discomfort, his eyes slipping closed. John kissed him gently, licking his way into his partner's mouth and plundering it thoroughly. Sherlock slipped a hand into John's hair, relaxing into the kiss.

Sherlock forced himself to stay relaxed and let out a soft moan as the doctor slid another finger inside him. John began to thrust his fingers slowly and the detective rocked his hips, fucking himself tortuously on John's fingers. He let out another moan as John began to go faster, his lips leaving burning trails where they pressed against his neck, his collarbone, his shoulder. His partner's fingers brushed his prostate and Sherlock let out a surprised, pleasured noise.

"John... Now..." He panted, tugging at John's hips insistently.

"So impatient..." John murmured, smiling so Sherlock would know he was teasing. Sherlock merely growled in response and sealed his mouth over John's. He bit at the doctor's lips and thrust his tongue between them, licking at the inside of John's mouth, his need becoming harsher. John moaned into the kiss and removed his fingers, earning a whimper of protest from Sherlock.

John lifted one of Sherlock's legs, guiding it around his waist, and lined himself up with Sherlock's entrance. He pushed in slowly, biting his lip and trying his utmost not to come right there. When he'd pushed in as far as he could go, John rested his forehead against Sherlock's, panting, adjusting to the heat and tightness of being inside Sherlock. The detective wrapped his other leg around John and clenched his muscles, pulling John deeper and tightening around him simultaneously. John moaned loudly, his breath hitching.

"Sherlock... God..." He kissed his partner's forehead, his cheeks, softly, drinking him in. "You feel amazing..."

Sherlock exhaled, even his breath trembling with need. "Please... John..." he whispered.

John moaned and nodded. He withdrew some before snapping his hips forward and burying himself inside Sherlock again. The detective let out a loud groan, urging John on, and the doctor continued to thrust, trying to keep his pace even as the burning tension at his core grew. Sherlock started rocking his hips with John's thrusts, amplifying the sensations that were coursing through him. He looked up at his partner, catalouging every aspect of John in that moment. His eyes were half-shut and his lips were parted, allowing short, harsh breaths to escape and warm the air between them. His short blonde hair was slightly damp with sweat, the ends sticking to his temples. Sherlock trailed his hands up John's sides and he shivered at the touch, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the detective's lips.

John started thrusting faster, Sherlock moaning against his lips. He reached down and wrapped a hand around Sherlock's cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. Sherlock groaned and his hands tightened on John's shoulders.

"John... M'close..." he whispered, his gray-blue eyes hooded with lust. John moaned and adjusted his angle slightly, finding Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock groaned, a burst of pleasure travelling through his entire body. John thrust into him again and Sherlock felt his orgasm rip through him, leaving him breathless. His muscles clenched, tightening around John's cock and the doctor moaned his partner's name as he came inside him.

John rested his forehead against Sherlock's, both of them catching their breath. After a minute, Sherlock tilted his head and brought their lips together, softly, breathing John in. The doctor broke the kiss and smiled down at his partner, his eyes glazed with contentment.

"That was good..." John murmured.

Sherlock snorted. "As ever, your command of the English language is immense and versatile," he said with a small smile.

John rolled his eyes and murmured, "Tosser." He shifted, his softening cock pulling out of Sherlock, who made a soft noise of protest. John turned onto his side and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, nuzzling his neck. The detective chuckled and snuggled close, allowing himself to bask in the peace John had created for him. John's eyes slipped closed and he breathed a deep, satisfied sigh.

"Love you..." he murmured, already drifting off to sleep.

Sherlock's expression turned soft and he pulled the blankets over them both, making sure John was well covered. "I love you too, John," he said softly. He kept his eyes open and watched John sleep for awhile before drifting off himself, warm and comfortable and loved.


End file.
